


Crayons, Memories, and the rest of it

by cruentum



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dementia, Other, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruentum/pseuds/cruentum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>summerpornathon 2013 entry. He needs to keep them close to remember. But he forgets more often than not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crayons, Memories, and the rest of it

**Author's Note:**

> written for challenge 3 of the Merlin summerpornathon 2013: Fuck or Die.

It's a thing they have. Merlin prefers the blue crayons. They taste of something like chocolate. Arthur likes red. Gwen likes yellow. When they don't eat crayons, they fuck. Sometimes they read or play bridge or bingo, and Merlin gets that stabby ache in the side of his chest when the two of them put their heads together and

sometimes he forgets they're there. Then it's only crayons and the grey skies and the flower on the window sill that someone must have brought but he doesn't remember. It's an orchid, he knows that. But when he looks out at the street, who knows what place it is, what city, what country even. He thinks they have left one and gone to another but

Crayons. Happiness. Colours.

They kiss on the terrace. Arthur's lips and Gwen's hand on his crotch and his own on Arthur's. Tongues. They kiss until people pull them apart, and one moment to the next the clarity, memory, actual things that actually happened and that he remembers, and then they're gone again and he doesn't know much at all.

He has magic, he thinks. He holds out his hand at the sippy cup of the water, at Arthur's legs that don't work and Gwen's hip, and says things, but they aren't really words and they don't seem to work.

"You all right today, sir?" one of the people asks, as he's still reaching for Arthur's cock that's flopped out onto his thigh, wrinkled, and he tries to bend down but a hand on his shoulder stops him and presses a crayon into his hand instead. It doesn't taste of much. It doesn't taste of cock for sure. Arthur and Gwen don't talk anymore. They ceased existing a while ago.

He gets a hand around himself at night, and he gets glimpses of things then, horses and carriages and Arthur a handsome king. He tells someone the next day, not Arthur, not Gwen, and they tell him they're fine stories, those. Fine stories. 

Merlin holds hands with Gwen sometimes, as they eat, under the table, thumb rubbing over thumb and knuckles, having someone there who knows. And it's love and it's the time they shared in Paris when they'd been young, in Berlin, in Prague. The war and things before and after, making life work, hands on bodies, both Arthur and he fucking Gwen on the small cot that promptly broke and

they push Gwen out of the room to the other room with the big windows and the crayons and it's gone.

He'd remember if they could have it again. He'd get more than glimpses if he got his mouth on Arthur's cock or his face into Gwen's crotch. They'd be twenty again and dancing together, all three of them, they'd be older and stand as king and queen and advisor, they'd be people.

But they hand him crayons instead, and he likes the blue ones, and Arthur likes the red ones, and Gwen the yellow ones, and if he remembered, if they let him, he could draw them pictures and tell them who they were and still are, he'd paint them like living legends, the giants whose shoulders this world exists on. He can take himself in hand and squeeze and rub at his cock, try and remember their shapes and how they felt, how easy they fit together. How hard they fucked. 

He tries magic sometimes, and they try fucking sometimes.

But he forgets now. Easily. He knows the flower but doesn't know where he is. He knows who they are but he forgets what they feel like. He likes the blue crayons. They taste of something like chocolate. Maybe. Maybe they just taste of crayon.


End file.
